


This Match Made In Blood

by TheSilverQueen



Series: This Match of Blood and Murder [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Also another random OC, Also that random secretary Hannibal may or may not have eaten, Alternate Universe, Hannibal Cre-Ate-ive, Hannibal falls in love faster than Romeo I swear to God, M/M, Personal assistant!Will Graham, Poor Franklyn as a side character to move the plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 04:28:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7560133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSilverQueen/pseuds/TheSilverQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal needs a new secretary, because she was very rude. Will needs a new job, because his boss just turned up as the Chesapeake Ripper’s newest kill. It’s a match made in blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Match Made In Blood

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by the lovely #HardAtWork prompt hosted by the lovely folks at Hannibal Cre-Ate-Ive, which can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/HanniCreative_HardAtWorkChallenge). You should also read all the other works in the collection, cuz they're fabulous.

**PART ONE: HANNIBAL**

Wilma is getting incredibly annoying.

When she started out, she had been suitably quiet and respectful, battered down by all the forces of the world into containing all that she was into the presentably domestic wife of a high-flying businessman. She’d taken the job as a quiet way to “have a little pocket money” and, not so quietly, be accounted for day and night at home and at work so that her rather overbearing husband could commit his affairs in private without worrying that she might even so much as glance at another man.

Her husband, Liam, had been incredibly annoying. Hannibal’s first impression had been that of an old bulldog, pugnacious to the last, but worn down by life and tenacity to the point where he barked more at shadows than at real threats.

The sole saving grace had been that he was obsessed with his health and exercised rigorously and often.

After Wilma had called out three days in a row, she’d turned up with red eyes and clouds of Kleenex around her, unable to cope with the idea that her husband might have run off without another woman. Hannibal had given her in consolation hot soup laden with vegetables and copious amounts of chicken meat, to bolster her spirits and her welfare, he’d explained.

That had probably been a mistake, in retrospect.

Hannibal opens the door to find Wilma hastily standing up from behind his desk, sweeping what he can spy are bobby pins into her clutch. “Han – Dr. Lecter!” she says, and her voice trembles so much that it makes his ears wince.

Hannibal sighs internally.

_Strike one._

It is very rude to rummage through other people’s belongings without permission.

“Wilma,” he greets politely, and holds the door open for her. When he had started looking for secretaries, he had made it very but politely clear in the job description that their office would be outside, greeting his patients and sometimes walking them out through the second waiting room. That was their domain. This would be his, and his alone.

Wilma merely swallows and tugs at the hem of her dress.

_Strike two._

Even ruder than to rummage through people’s belongings is to ignore obvious social cues. Internally, Hannibal tsks. And she was raised with manners, given her parents’ ability to secure her marriage into the finance world of wealthy bachelors.

The silence is getting to Wilma, Hannibal can tell. Now she wants to leave, as indicated by the shifting of her feet, but the prey instinct is beginning to take over. Instead of walking away, she merely tugs anxiously at her hair. For once, it’s not curled – Hannibal can tell that she had left early without finishing her normal routine. Strange, considering that she’s wearing so much perfume that it almost makes his eyes water in sympathy. The floral scent she’s chosen does not go at all well with the breath mints she’d chosen to try and hide the overpowering scent of coffee. And he’d taken such care to warn her that overpowering scents would

_Strike three._

Such rudeness.

At least he had already had a simple tutorial written out that’d he made for the past two new hires.

* * *

**PART TWO: WILL**  


Will had joined Mail Order PA business on a whim. It been a quick and easy way to make cash on the side during college, and after the gunshot wound and the messiness that followed, simple and easy ways had kept him stocked in fishing gear and dog food while he drifted about. He found fulfillment in being a substitute PA and secretary for big firms, because it required no great emotional attachment and there were not great expectations to bog him down. Even better, when the BAU had come calling, Will’s boss had looked Special Agent Jack Crawford up and down and said, “He’s my best secretary. Do you know how hard it is to replace secretaries? No? Then shoo!”

Crawford had looked at her, turned bright red, and then slammed the door so hard on his way they’d hard to replace it.

Sometimes, for fun, Will does look up old cold cases and drop little tips in public police lines. He can’t avoid it. But being a substitute PA and secretary pays the bills and he can use his empathy to read the typical boring requirements of his clients without drowning in the rage and hallucinations of past killers.

Well, for the most part.

His current client is a total arsehole. Like, really, legitimately an arsehole. He insists on going everywhere in a bright neon green limousine, he for some reason lovely pairing purple polka dots shirts with orange striped pants, and if he hits on Will one more time, Will might actually bite him.

But not in the sexy way his client wants.

In the “I will rip out your genitals and shove it down your throat” way.

Not that Will actually says this out loud to his client. He’s a professional. And his client keeps giving him random bonuses in the hopes that it’ll make him more likely to wear the outrageous lingerie the man keeps sending the office.

For the record, Will’s boss had laughed so hard she’d cried when she’d gotten the package, and then she’d refused to let him take them away from her or hide them from everybody else, and then she’d actually written his name on them and stapled them to the wall in their interview room just to use them as a meter to gauge new hires.

Will loves Ally so much, he really does.

Anyways, the newest piece just arrived and it’s neon blue to “match the color of his eyes” and so this is why Will doesn’t notice the careful drops of blood like a morbid breadcrumb trail when he enters the building.

He does notice when he isn’t greeted by a flamboyant “HELLO WILL HI WILL WELCOME WILL” the second he opens the door. It’s cute when his dogs do it. It’s much less cute for his client to do it.

“Sir?”

And that’s when he sees the carefully dismembered corpse, laid out like limb and organ by limb and organ like the most morbid trail of “He likes me, he likes me not” flower petals all over the building, culminating in a triumphant arrangement of flowers at the top of the stairs to the private loft.

Not real flowers though.

Flowers like fingers and toes for unfolding petals, eyeballs at the center piece of the petals, and the head as circular base. His killer even painted his nails alternating but complementary colors to simulate real life flower petals.

Will’s going to need a lot more coffee to deal with this crap. Like gallons. Possibly an ocean.

* * *

**PART THREE: FRANKLYN**

After Will calls the police and the police call the FBI and the FBI call in the BAU, it officially becomes one of the worst weeks of Will’s life. Mainly because the agent assigned to the case is Special Agent Jack Crawford, who spends the first five minutes of the interview asking pointedly personal questions like “Where are you on the spectrum?” and “What did you get from the killer’s mind?” and “Can I borrow your imagination?”

That’s when Ally comes charging in.

She shoves a literal half gallon of coffee in Will’s hand, the name card of their firm’s lawyer into the startled bystander agents, and then proceeds to drag the special agent out of the room, scolding viciously with actual fingers on the agent’s ear as a leash out.

Will loves Ally.

Unfortunately, she also loves him, which means that she only gives him boring part time assignments for the rest of the week. Will prefers the full-time ones that are contracted out, because it creates stability and also a schedule he definitely knows, so that he isn’t constantly abandoning his dogs at his neighbors’ houses. Granted, the firm covers the cost of the random dog sitting, but he really misses his pack sometimes.

Especially right now, though, since Will is currently drowning in boring, boring, and _more boring_.

Franklyn Froideveaux had hired him with the claim of needing a new personal assistant to deal with the tiny boring details of preparing for social gatherings, primarily operas. The money offered had been, quite frankly, obscene, and Will’s first read of Froideveaux had only revealed a nervous exterior with a deeply obsessive desire to please and befriend, so he’d taken the job with a shrug and a reminder to get measured for a new tux.

Now, Will is rather regretting that fact. Froideveaux is so nervous over something or someone that he’s already sweated through three shirts and one suit jacket, and Will’s had to run back and forth so many times he’s starting to sweat through his tux. Plus he’s constantly getting distracted from the opera by the way Froideveaux keeps plucking at his elbow every five minutes before losing the courage to tell him why.

And it’s a lovely opera too, as the singers are expressive and can sing beautifully.

If Will could sit in one of the private boxes and be alone, he’d be happy as his pack currently is right now, playing around on the sitter’s farm.

Given all that, the second the performance ends, Will was very relieved. There’s mingling at the end, of course, but given Froideveaux’s nervousness, he imagined a quick and hasty exit to calm his nerves with cheese and wine.

That’s why he’s caught so off-guard when instead, Froideveaux downs an entire glass of wine and heads straight for the mass of circling vultures.

Will would call them sharks, but most of them are dressed so extravagantly he can’t imagine them actually be able to swim smoothly. They all walk with a weird gait like birds who boast about flying but prey on morsels that can no longer flee, which is mostly due to the shoes, and also the reason why Will wore comfortable flats. Not quite fancy enough for the opera, but he’s a personal assistant for a reason.

“Dr. Lecter!” Froideveaux burbles enthusiastically.

Will barely resists facepalming. Barely. And quite boldly. He doesn’t even need empathy to see the way the man Froideveaux’s addressing – who was in the middle of holding court with people well-dressed even by the opera’s standards – twitches his eyebrows and curls the corner of his lip in pity.

Will squints.

No, not pity. Disdain. Annoyance.

 _He’s the dirt I grind into dirt at the bottom of my dirtiest shoes,_ Will’s mind whispers, and he has a flash of hands – strong hands, callused hands, knowledgeable hands that have practiced and practiced and practiced until the motion becomes as simple and rehearsed as kneading dough – twisting and grasping and pulling, until naught is behind but silence and a broken neck, all topped up with a glass of wine, a tiny toast of appreciation, and an even tinier smile of approval.

Wow, and he thought he’d come to the opera to get away from _crazy_ hallucinations.

Will comes out of it just in time to hear Froideveaux exclaim: “ – new secretary!” and pull onto his arm so abruptly he nearly drops the drink he’d been holding for the man.

 _Well, that was rude,_ Will thinks.

And then he thinks, _Wait, since when did I care?_  


Which is when Will realizes that everyone is staring at him, some politely, some not so much. More of the not so much.

“What?” he says eloquently.

A lovely middle-aged woman standing at Dr. Lecter’s elbow smiles politely at him. “Mr. Froideveaux was just telling us that you’ve accepted a job as his new secretary,” she prompts.

“Ah . . . yes.”

“I – Well, I was just hearing about what happened to Wilma,” Froideveaux says anxiously, and Will can already feel the sweat forming where his fingers are touching his tux. “And it occurred to me that maybe, you know, I needed one. To broaden my social circle of course.”

“An interesting choice,” Dr. Lecter says mildly, and wow, there isn’t a single inflection in that voice. Will can’t sense disapproval or amusement or annoyance at all.

A suit within a suit.

Will kind of loves those people, though. Less emotion to drive his empathy nuts.

“Unless, unless of course you need a new secretary. Then I’m be more than willing to find a new one,” Froideveaux says quickly. “I’m sure you have a greater need of him than me, Dr. Lecter, you’re always so busy. And, well, I can certainly easily find another one, and we can discuss the arrangement over dinner perhaps? Or lunch?”

Will subtly but firmly yanks his elbow away. He’s not a dog to be gifted onto a new master as a way of getting approval.

For some reason, when he looks back up, Dr. Lecter is looking straight at him, and now there’s inflection in his face. A smile, for god knows why, and it’s a real one, not the fake polite plastic the others in the circle have been using.

Creepy.

Thank god, at that moment Ally calls. She calls every single person on contract after a few hours or days or weeks, depending on the length of the contract, to check in and make sure they’re doing fine.

Will immediately excuses himself, although he doesn’t really care at all, and abandons Froideveaux to his ever-weakening attempts to cultivate Dr. Lecter’s favor. He’s already fulfilled his night’s obligation anyways, so the money is his unless he does something drastic like drop his pants and moon all the rude people here. Which he is really tempted too, by the way.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he tells Ally the second he can pick up.

“That bad? You need a lifesaver? I put some in your pocket before you left, they should still be good. Unless you sat on them. Then they’ll be good but melted.”

A smile slips out against his will at the sound of his code word. They all have one, which are generally based around candy and therefore easily explained away. If they say they need it, Ally terminates the contract. If not, then she shrugs and eats the candies herself.

“Nah, I’m fine. There’s wine and candy already here. But like really fancy candy. I’m almost afraid I might crack my teeth on it if I try it.”

“Will Graham, afraid of something? I’d have to see that to believe it.”

“You should have seen my face the first time you sent me to a tuxedo store, then. All those needles? Did you know I have a fear of needles?”

“You do not, I helped you inject that dog of yours when she got infected.”

“Okay, well, I still had a fear back then.”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘back then’ uh-huh,” Ally mocks. “Seriously though, all good?”

“Yeah. I promise.”

They exchange a few more words, and then Ally hangs up with a cheerful “But seriously either eat the lifesavers or give them back, I want them” that makes him laugh again. Ally’s always had that talent. She’s like the sister he never had. Literally, she actually semi-adopted him during college, and dragged him into her world no matter the way he complained or dragged his heels. He’s so glad she did.

“Mr. Graham, was it?”

Will jumps about a foot into the air. “Holy Christ, you need a bell,” he says without thinking.

Dr. Lecter smiles even wider at that, which, okay, hates rudeness but is okay with Will? Paradox right there. “I confess I’ve been told so before,” he replies. “I can’t help but noticing that your contract with Mr. Froideveaux is only for this night?”

“Yes, unless he asks for an extension.” _Which isn’t happening._

Dr. Lecter hums, and if Will knew him better, he’d almost say it was in agreement. Mostly it just sounds like a polite noise. “Well, despite the way he decided to breach the subject,” Dr. Lecter says, “I am actually in need of a secretary. I would ask you for a business card, but . . .”

“I don’t have one.”

He’s a secretary. He carries other people’s business cards.

Dr. Lecter’s smile widens, and this time there’s a hint of teeth. _My, what big teeth you have, Big Bad Shark._ Because Dr. Lecter is definitely a shark, all smooth lines and fierce attire and sharp exterior. Will bets the man could change right now and go back into the opera with just a speedo and he’d still be cooed over by all the ladies and gentleman here. Or even hold court from a pool, soaking wet, in said speedo.

Will is spending way too much time imagining this man in a speedo.

Dr. Lecter reaches into his pocket and hands _him_ a business card. “In case you are interested,” he says simply. “I will await your call.” 

Then he strides away, smiling enigmatically all the way.

Will looks down. It says, in flowing and flowery script: “Hannibal Lecter” with ten thousand pairs of official looking letter combinations after his name, plus a simple address and phone number. And it’s good quality cardstock too, thick and cream-colored and somehow not even the slightest bit warm with body heat from wherever Lecter had stashed it.

_Pretentious cold-blooded shark._

Will kinda wants to work for him now.

* * *

**PART FOUR: HARD AT WORK**  


When Hannibal arrives on Monday, he’s pleased to see that Will’s car is parked exactly where he instructed. He has to admit, Will Graham is fascinating. The man had slid from cool and collected to annoyed and sullen to relieved and happy in the span of about five minutes, with the ease of a snake shedding a well worn skin. Not to mention, he could feel the man’s eyes glaring holes into his back as soon as he walked away.

And yet.

And yet, he’d received a call promptly at 8:00 in the morning the next day from a cheerful yet firm woman named Ally, who’d negotiated a probationary contract for Will with respect and politeness. The salary had been lower than he’d expected, so he’d included a raise and some other benefits that had had Ally repeating quite firmly the policies of the firm. He’d respected that, and the contract had been signed within a few hours.

And now, Will is here.

Although, he notes with a displeased sigh, not where he is supposed to be. And the door to his office is open.

The office he specified as his domain.

What Hannibal sees when he steps into his office, though, surprises him.

Will is . . . well. Will has got his sleeves rolled up and is half over the windowsill, tinkering with a latch or something on the far windows. He’s got his tongue sticking out of his mouth and dust all over his face, all accentuated with the early morning sun glinting off of his eyes and curls. His eyes are very, very, very blue, and his curls are a rich deep color. Some might call it brown, but brown is far too simple a word to express that color. And most startling of all is that clearly he’s had a mishap or two, because there’s a long shallow cut on his arm that’s slowly leaking blood.

Will Graham is beautiful.

Hannibal has taken three steps towards him before he’s even realized. The scent of Will’s blood is calling to him. He inhales, and takes in sweat and dogs and sweetness and blood and some frankly awful cologne.

“Did you just _smell_ me?” Will says suddenly.

Hannibal is grimacing, again, before he even realizes. “Difficult to avoid, given that cologne,” he replies politely.

Will gives him the polite side eye. Which is really a squinty look. “Uh-huh.”

Hannibal clears his throat. “Hard at work, I see. Although I thought I might pointed out that I was under the impression that I had hired a secretary, not a repair man. Not that the repairs are unwelcome, of course.”

“It’s a simple fix,” Will says with a shrug. “Just some rust and some upgrades. This is a piece of cake compared to the boat motors I used to fix with my dad.”

Cake. Will would be a beautiful cake. With blue flowers of cream to match his eyes, and red coloring to match his lovely blood, and curls of chocolate to match the lovely curls atop his head. Although he would not pattern it plaid. That would most certainly clash with the decor. But Hannibal’s sure he would taste _divine_.

Will slides down the window seat and looks guilty at his hands. “Uh . . . do you mind if I use the restroom?”

“I believe bathroom privileges were established in the contract.”

“Pretentious,” Will mutters as he passes. He probably thinks Hannibal couldn’t hear him. Which, to be fair, normal people wouldn’t. But it lacks any heat, and if anything, Hannibal’s intrigued.

He wants to hear more. Much, much more.

“William.”

Will sticks his head out of the bathroom. He’s washed with hot water, and thoroughly, so the steam makes his hair stick to his forehead and gives a beautiful sheen to his face. “Yes, Dr. Lecter?”

“I was wondering if I might inquire as to the honor of your presence at a dinner party I will be holding.”

Will blushes. Blushes. It’s gorgeous. And it makes his eyes stand out even more.

“I uh . . . Not sure how well that goes for employer and employee, Dr. Lecter,” he eventually stammers out.

Hannibal doesn’t bother contain the smile this time. “Oh, I’m sure that soon we’ll be very good friends as well, Mr. Graham. In fact, you should probably start calling me by first name.”

Will steps out and looks at him as if judging his intent. Whatever he sees, he seems to accept it. He sticks out his hand, freshly dried and smelling pleasantly of soap instead of that horrible cologne. “Will, then.”

Hannibal takes his hand in both hands and raises it to his mouth to kiss, like the fine consort Will could be. “Then I must insist you call me Hannibal.”

FINIS

**Author's Note:**

> Trivia time! There is a tiny Supernatural reference buried in this thing. If you can't spot it . . . good. Cuz I didn't intend to put it in there. It just kinda slipped in on its own.
> 
> Also IDK why this tickled my muse so much, but it did, so thanks for that, fellow Fannibals. 
> 
> If you wanna come flail about Will's dogs and cute pandas and stuff, you can come flail with me on [tumblr](http://thesilverqueenlady.tumblr.com). I don't bite, although I do sometimes rant about my uncooperative muse and maybe will post some [sneak peeks of fics](http://thesilverqueenlady.tumblr.com/tagged/sneakpeeksundays) here and then.


End file.
